Of Courtship and Whiskey
by Demon Darkchild
Summary: Whiskey is for two kinds of people: old men and those who hate themselves and this leaves Thrall to wonder; What secrets lie beneath her smiling surface?  Inspired by a prompt on the Warcraft Kink Meme.
1. Chapter 1

'Damn it all!'

Thrall paced his quarters, exasperated. In a way, he had just made both the best and worst slip up of all time.

He replayed it over and over in his mind, cursing how such words could so easily fall from his lips, words that had the capability to cause wars if they fell upon the proper ears. But the ears they fell upon were not attached to just anyone. Those ears belonged to Jaina Proudmoore. And Jaina was probably the last person he had wanted to hear those words, but for entirely different reasons.

They had been seated around a small fire on a butte above Razor Hill, alone, long since leaving the banner of formality behind. They would talk, sometimes about the legitimate problems with which any leader was faced, but more and more frequently their conversations drifted into less serious waters. And Jaina always brought whiskey.

To be honest, Thrall had never pegged Jaina to be the whiskey type. He'd always imagined her sitting in her tower, surrounded by books and paperwork, glass of some red tincture in hand. The sight of her that first evening was quite surprising; two bottles of the amber liquid grasped between her fingers and a mischievous smile upon her lips.

He laughed, "I didn't think whiskey was quite your style."

"When one has problems as daunting as ours, Thrall, wine just doesn't seem to cut it."

Thrall always had quite a hard time with the human-sized shot glasses, much to Jaina's amusement, and after losing them time and time again she finally stopped bringing them, opting instead to drink it straight from the bottle.

This night had been no different.

The fire had cast a yellow glow onto their faces, but the whiskey had brought a light to their eyes. Their conversation had yet again drifted away from whatever it was that they were talking about (Northrend? Warsong Gulch? He couldn't remember) and found itself on the topic of love lives.

Jaina and Thrall were good friends; topics like this haven't been awkward to them for some time now. However, this topic usually entailed Jaina letting out her feelings about her past loves and Thrall providing the sturdy shoulder to cry on. He wasn't expecting her to turn the tables on him.

"Well?" She asked impatiently, the alcohol mistaking his thoughtful silence for refusal to answer.

"What would you have me say? It's not very dramatic or interesting."

Jaina's eyebrow quirked in disbelief and she motioned for him to continue.

"My relationships, they just never end up working out."

He could hear her bite back a chuckle as she turned to put a hand on his shoulder. He supposed the look upon her face was supposed to be of concern, but she was failing spectacularly.

"Might it be, Warchief," She said in an overly dignified tone," that you are lousy in the sack?"

Thrall cracked a brief half-smile at his own expense, before casting a sidelong glance at his companion. In the same dignified, but deeper, tone he replied:

"I assure you, Miss Proudmoore, they enjoyed themselves. _Thoroughly_."

She raised an eyebrow and appraised him in a quite comical manner, but as she began to speak her tone became more serious.

"In all seriousness, Thrall, why do these relationships fail? You're likely one of the best men I've ever known."

"Well, it's not as if I am incapable of finding a woman. It's just that when it's all said and done, she and I come to the conclusion that it isn't there, that feeling of oneness. We part our ways, no ill feelings between. Plain, but true."

"Sad is what it is, Thrall. You're the picture of Orcish, um, _handsomeness_, at least I guess." Her words were beginning to slide into a vernacular he only got to hear when she was drunk, "And fuck, Thrall, you've got a great personality in that green head of yours. _You_ weren't the problem in those relationships, aside from being picky, but hey." She took another swill from the bottle. She continued to surprise him. Not only was she a whiskey woman, but she could hold it too. She had almost downed the entire bottle. Not that he was judging her, or anything, he had finished his first bottle quite some time ago.

He wasn't nearly as inebriated as she and he laughed to himself that she always brings two bottles, thinking it will be enough and then underestimates her own capabilities instead of his. He'd begun bringing some of his own, he would hate to have her hold back on his account.

He opened the orcish draught, and she eyed it with a curiosity.

He laughed, "Oh, you want to drink all of mine now, do you?"

She slapped him on the arm and chuckled, "You big green bastard! I bring you liquor all of the time and you refuse to share your own!" She was rather animated in her body language.

He looked at her with mock defeat and handed her the bottle, and she took an overly large pull, as if to prove her point.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you."

She swallowed hard and began to cough. Her eyes watered and Thrall held her shoulders in place, so that she might not fall over, or, or something, they were sitting but that was the least of his worries at that moment.

When her fit was over she snatched the bottle from where she had set it and eyed it with a new respect.

"Damn, Thrall, you've been holding out on me."

They then rambled on about the differences between Human and Orcish alcohols, gratefully for Thrall, leaving his relationship troubles pleasantly obscured. Because, truly, he knew the answer for their failure, and that answer he was quite happy to keep to himself.


	2. Chapter 2

It wasn't until later, an hour or so later, when the fire had burned down to a glowing bed of coals, that he was in danger of revealing his secret.

"The stars shine so bright here." Jaina was lying on her back, admiring the sky, "It's a shame, really. The sky is never clear enough over Theramore for my people to appreciate them."

He hummed in agreement. He might have said something different if his subconscious, in his inebriated state of mind, had not _just now_ relayed to him that she wasn't wearing her usual attire. If he remembered correctly, and his memory was usually razor sharp, she was dressed exactly as she was the day they first met. She had long since removed her cloak, lying upon it so as not to soil her white clothes with so much red dust.

Gone were her cloth spaulders, exposing the pale, but subtly strong shoulders beneath. Her chest rose and fell with her breathing, free, he supposed, of its usual trappings- not that he minded the way her purple corsetry…_ supported_ the swell of her breasts. He quite enjoyed that, actually, though he'd _never_ admit it aloud.

His eyes traveled lower, following the taut lines of her abdomen, cast into relief by the moonlight. So different from an orcish woman's, but no less enticing, her soft skin calling to be touched. The curve of her waist gave way to the flare of her hips, such lovely hips- hips that he wished wouldn't keep him up at night.

He lamented that she was lying on her back, for her backside was something that required deep contemplation. If he were completely honest with himself, a rarity when it came to thoughts about her, it was probably one of the first things he noticed about her- the way her cheeks shifted so sensually when she walked. He wasn't the only orc left a little bit at loss for words.

And, naturally, such a fine posterior was seated atop legs that stretched on forever. It was a shame that she felt the need to cover herself with so many skirts, for her body was something to be admired. But an even greater shame still was that such a beautiful mind should be plagued by so many doubts.

She blamed herself for Strathholme, that she couldn't save Arthas from himself. Hell, her father died in her arms. These things he knew. But what was it that weighed on her mind to drive her from wine to whiskey?

Whiskey. It's a drink for old men and those who hate themselves. Blackmoore had hated himself- the bastard could not comprehend such emotions as love and kindness- and chose instead to drown himself in it, the burn filling the chasm where souls generally inhabit.

He paused. A drunken man raving about a drunk, now? Classy. He justified himself. Whiskey was also shared between comrades, veterans of war.

And that's what they were, he reminded himself, comrades sharing a drink and reminiscing.

He resumed. It was a relatively recent development, their whiskey affairs. At first their meetings were few and far between, diplomatic and professional, much like the meetings he had with his own staff. They would address each other by proper title, formally debating what need and need not be done in the world. Eventually they both managed to convince their guard that they _need not_ come along and could simply converse as the friends they had become to be.

Even without her guard, though, she was still reserved. She stayed that way until the armies of Azeroth had descended onto Northrend. Something that she had bottled up inside for years was suddenly back, sending wave after wave of undead at their divided forces.

She had cracked. Her frosty exterior broken into a thousand little pieces and the only person she trusted enough to put her back together was him. And of course he helped her. How would he have felt if Taretha were undead and creating monstrosities of the quiet dead, not once but twice? It would be heartbreaking.

He never considered himself good with comforting another, how could he- being a slave raised in solitude, but he nevertheless helped her to stitch the old wound back shut, to help her walk forward with the confidence he remembered her carrying.

After some time, she blossomed. She grew much warmer in their conversations, crossing the barrier from friends to close friends, and he was happy that he had finally found the friend he had been looking for, to fill the hole that Taretha, Grom and Orgrim had once held. Though, deep down, he had begun to recognize that there was a place in his heart for her that friendship was not enough for, but that the same friendship was far too treasured to be risked.

Time moved forward and the war pushed on. They met more frequently, attempting to ease the conflict between the two factions, trying to rebuild the cooperation that was shared at Mount Hyjal. And then the Wrathgate happened.

The battle for Undercity was grueling and it was only through their efforts on both sides that it did not escalate into open war between Horde and Alliance. It was that evening that she appeared on the butte with her whiskey. And they've been having these meetings bi-weekly ever since.

He was pulled back into the present. He must have been staring off in thought for some time now, the fire was but a glowing mess of coals, and by the look of her Jaina was doing the same. He appeased the hunger of the fire, adding some wood and in his movement Jaina was brought out of her reverie. He wondered, as the flames began to grow, what it was that was on her mind.

She sighed in defeat, as if resigning to an argument within herself, and then said flatly" On the bright side, Thrall, at least you've been _getting_ some."

When the Warchief gave her an incredulous look (_That's_ what she's been thinking about all this time?) she explained," You understand, a woman in my position can't just have casual relations, it would reflect badly on my leadership. And while I miss the sex, _that_ is for certain, I just can't bring myself to want that out of any given man. I have to know them, y'know? I have to know the man on the inside, his thoughts, his dreams, ambitions- all of that soppy shit." She snorts in laughter, coming to realize how drunk she must sound and continues," And I can't honestly say that men feel that way about me."

"I can't see why a man wouldn't be interested in you." Thrall said a bit before his mind can filter his words. Ah well, she had said essentially the same.

She laughed, almost in a startled way, and he couldn't tell if her cheeks are red from alcohol or flattery.

"I can't help but envy how orcish social politics work. If a man and a woman desire each other, they just _go_ for it. Parents aren't involved, class, rank, money or power- it doesn't matter. Women are allowed to be independent, strong. No one makes decisions for them. It's not like that for humans. Men want a quiet, obedient woman, one that's both beautiful and fragile."

Thrall seemed to be almost looking past her, still paying attention to her words, but seeing some far off place.

"I mean, they're not all _that_ bad. It really depends on how they were brought up, but for the most part, when a man looks at me I am not an accomplished mage or influential diplomat. I'm a political chess piece, a way to advance in society. They sugar their words, _'Lady'_ and _'Miss' _always with syrupy emphasis, and are constantly trying to flatter me. They've got all of the women in my staff in a fuss about it, I tell you!"

He snapped out of his reverie.

"Don't tell me Wrynn is in on this too."

"Oh and he's terrible at it!"

Thrall made a low sound of disapproval.

"Granted, he's a lot better about it than some of the nobles, but he just doesn't get it. I'm very much _not_ interested and he's very much _not_ used to hearing no."

Thrall laughed a bit to himself, as if he had just thought of something hilarious. "Well if you happen to need someone to defend your honor," he laid a heavy hand on her shoulder, the mischievous grin on his face revealing that he was, in fact, quite drunk," Don't hesitate to call. It might start the fourth war, but it would be worth it to see the look on his face!"

Jaina laughed, her head tilting back, exposing the fine lines of her neck. She turned to him, eyes still shining, and this time Thrall was completely certain of those feelings that he tried so hard to ignore.

"_Oh, _so now_ you're_ in on ittoo_?_ Light! It seems I can't go _anywhere_ without charming some poor bastard!"

The words fell from his lips before he could reel them in.

"Hmph. At least I have the tact to realize that you're not interested."

He tensed, (Fuck!) the words finally registering in his brain. She was _never_ supposed to even entertain that idea and he cursed himself for being so liberal with his words. If she was smart, and he _knew_ she was- sharply so- she surely would have noticed his slip up. Oh he was fucked, so desperately _fucked_.

But she simply laughed as though he were rolling with the joke and then, in facetious annoyance," Oh now you're just pulling my strings!" She punctuated the sentence by jabbing an accusatory finger at him, as drunken people are wont to do.

To Thrall, relief had never felt so sweet.

The night continued on and eventually they made their leave of each other, the sobering thought of work compelling them to go home. Thrall took special care in flying his zeppelin; he would hate to have to explain wrecking into the flight tower or worse, why he smelled like human whiskey.

And then there he was, pacing his quarters. It's something he usually did to help him think, but he did it now because there was no other action to take. It was completely out of his hands now. She remembers _everything_ and she'll mull those words over in her mind and their friendship will be lost.

Alas, he was tired and probably overreacting. He sighed, defeated, and went to bed. The morning would prove to be a new day.


	3. Chapter 3

Sleep did not come so easy to Jaina. The archmage lay in her bed, eyes open to keep the room from spinning, staring at the supports of her ceiling. She had already begun to recall all that was said on the butte, mulling those implications over in her mind.

'Was I hitting on him?'

Her eyebrows tilted upwards at the ceiling, as if it held an answer, or could reply at all. Her inner self filled in.

'You've essentially told him you were horny all of the time but that you need to know the man before you get to it. And really, do you even have any other male friends?'

She kicked her head back in frustration.

'Way to fuck this one up, Proudmoore. You're _friends_. Your advances probably make him feel awkward and he's just too polite to bring it up.'

In truth, it wasn't something she did consciously, the flirting. It just kind of _happened_. It was why Arthas had been so smitten with her; it was likely the cause of Kael'thas' infatuation. She thought she had trained that trait out of herself, but it seems to be an undeniable truth that people ignore those kind of rules when intoxicated.

And really, it was a bad idea to even entertain that idea- that such a romance was even possible; Oh, she must really be drunk to admit _that_ bit to herself. If Kael'thas was a bad idea, then Thrall was surely the worst, though mostly politically. Why did he have to be so damn easy to get along with? Light, if he were human this wouldn't be a problem, but no, fate was not kind to her, never was. And these unrequited feelings hurt the worst. Kael'thas, she supposed, was getting the last laugh now, in whatever hell he currently resided.

Ugh. Jaina ran a hand through her hair, the heel of her palm resting on her forehead as if trying to control the thoughts about to be had.

'_Thoroughly'._

Her inner self was back, "_That_ doesn't make it any easier does it?" She would be lying to herself if she said she hadn't imagined what that would be like, to make love with him. It was a thought that only surfaced on nights like these, when her inhibitions were so low as to even admit things to herself, like how it would feel to bury her fingers into his black hair as she writhed beneath him, his impossibly strong arms holding her in a gentle embrace. Or perhaps the ever thoughtful chieftain would suggest she ride atop him, so that he might not harm her with his size, whichever way she wanted to take that metaphor. And light be dammed, knowing he was good at it didn't help at all, not one bit!

She rolled over in frustration, hoping that, like usual, she would forget this part of the evening by the time she awoke on the morrow. She closed her eyes, the room pitching and swaying like a ship in a storm. But she had spent many of her days aboard ships, and sleep soon found the conflicted woman.

* * *

><p>It was more often now than before that Jaina awoke with the thought 'Never Again.' She rolled over in her bed, in a feeble attempt to return to sleep, but the incessant throbbing in her head dictated otherwise. She cracked her eyes open, the crisp early morning light only proving to sharpen the pain behind her eyes. She looked around to find that her maidservant, the only one who knew about her whiskey affairs with the Warchief, had set out a glass of water and a cup of some herbal tea. Jaina made a mental note to give the kind elderly woman some extra holiday leave, her service was invaluable.<p>

Holiday leave. Ah, yes. Theramore's Founding Festival was but a week away. Attendance was expected to be much higher than usual; it would seem the members of the Alliance took every opportunity of celebrating in these dark and trying days. It would certainly boost morale for all of the soldiers home for military leave. This was a good thing.

Jaina picked up the cup of steaming tea and tentatively took a sip.

But there were also problems with such a celebration. Personal ones. Varian Wrynn was sure to make an appearance, along with more than a few well-off Stormwind Nobles, all of whom were certain to make a grand attempt at sweeping her off of her feet. Jaina sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose with her thumb and forefinger.

In public, no doubt. Using the pressures of her peoples wishes to corner her into making a decision. Pitiful. Witless cowards, all of them. She took another sip, burning her tongue but not caring in the slightest. Did none of them understand that she was not interested in marriage? Not yet, and especially not with men as superficial as themselves. Well, Varian was different, but she'd dealt with enough emotionally difficult men in her lifetime to know that it would be a relationship doomed to failure, at least on her end. And sure, there was a part of her that found the gladiator king attractive, all muscular and scarred up as he was, but that was not enough to counterbalance his quick shifting moods and his blind hatred for the Horde. So many of her efforts has he undermined simply by being present!

And now he's gotten it into his head that she would make a fine bride. And her answer was as much 'no' as if Garrosh Hellscream had asked the same question. She cracked a cynical smile to herself; the whole scenario probably wouldn't play out all that differently either.

Jaina shifted her gaze to the stack of letters that occupied her desk, neglected due to last night's festivities. They were what were left of her formal invitations to the festival; she had sent out many to the leaders of the Alliance and other people of import. She had also sent one to Thrall, as she had done in years past. It was more of a polite, formal gesture than anything- it was obvious he could never attend- though he always sends her a reply just the same.

At the thought of her unlikely friend, Jaina felt a niggling in the back of her mind, as though she was forgetting something important. The only realization she came to was that, indeed, she didn't remember teleporting back home. Again. She reprimanded herself about just how dangerous that was; she could've popped inside of a wall or appeared at the right location but the wrong altitude. All it would take is one little misstep in the incantation. But in reality, this was just a token protest she made to appease her conscience. Jaina had been pulling this particular stunt since her days in Dalaran, and was so accomplished that she no longer required incantations to cast such mundane spells.

She took another sip of her tea, the herby brew already beginning to ease the pain in her head, its warmth seeping into her bones. Light bless her maidservant; the woman was truly a miracle worker. Jaina stretched her arms over her head, one last morning yawn escaping her lips as she made her way to her to her armoire to ready herself for the doubtlessly taxing day ahead.


	4. Chapter 4

Thrall could never really understand, on mornings like these, how Blackmoore could continue to drink throughout the day. All he ever wanted to do when he awoke was ingest an endless amount of water, anything to rid himself of that awful dryness in his mouth and in his bones.

He cracked open his eyes, noting the bright shade of the sunlight on the sparse walls of his quarters, and groaned. Damn it. He had probably skipped the first of his appointments for today, so late was the hour. Thrall willed himself up, tossing his sleeping furs aside to sit on the edge of his bed, his bare feet touching the cool stone floor. He rubbed the corners of his eyes, to remove them of the sleep that had accumulated there over the night, and looked around his room.

How drunk had he been? His armor, the black and copper Doomplate, usually so painstakingly stored, had been haphazardly removed, left to sit where he had dropped the pieces. His gaze moved to his right to find the Doomhammer standing cockeyed on its head in the middle of the floor, as if it _wasn't_ the most important thing he owned.

He sighed, a bit disappointed in himself. It would take twice as long to put all of it on now.

Thrall made his way over to the washbasin in the corner and splashed his face to wake himself. He gave himself a sobering look in the reflection of the water's surface, the droplets of water falling from his face and rippling the image.

'You need to stop fooling yourself. Even if she did return those feelings, what would either of you do about it? Ruin her political career? Ruin yours?'

He dried his face with a rough square of linen, and turned to gather his armor.

'It does you no good to pine over her; it brings you nothing but heartache and dissatisfaction. Every woman you meet, you compare to her. Is that fair to every honest and proud orc female that finds their way into your company? Is it fair that they should come into a relationship with so many unknown expectations hanging above their heads? That you think about another woman when you lie with them?

He roughly shoved his feet into his boots, reaching down to buckle the shin plates into place.

He scowled to himself as he dons the rest of his armor. This was precisely why he did not drink on a regular basis. Not only did it make him painfully aware of facets of his subconscious, those realizations paired with a constant sharp pain stabbing into his skull put him into a foul mood; some of which he aims at himself, some of which was probably inflicted upon his staff, though none of them, not even Vol'jin, made mention of it.

He sighed, halfway through securing the armor to his right leg. The worst part about the situation was that he couldn't convince himself otherwise. As hard as he tried, and despite the countless lies and reassurances he told himself, he could not rid himself of the part of himself that cared so very deeply about the human archmage. There was a level of understanding that they shared that he could reach with few others. So much history. So many shared memories and battles won.

They were equals.

…And perhaps that was the root of the problem.

He paused, mulling that thought over for a moment. It was true that he always felt a stitch of doubt when a woman of his own race took interest in him. The question would endlessly turn in his mind: Had they fallen for _him_, or their idea of him? He had found it was most often the latter; they thought him a charismatic conqueror, a warrior and shaman unparalleled. And while he was those things- though he preferred more humble words- he usually found his day to day work to be consumed by meetings and paperwork. It was less the glory of battle and more about determining taxes and how to conserve water, reading reports from the nearest to the farthest of the Horde's outposts and _letters_, so many letters. It was never what they expected, and it was why, in the end, that they left.

He could try to act like he gave them all an honest chance, and he sorely wished he could have, but in the end he did not have the time. The mantle of Warchief is not an easy one to bear, and though he could delegate many of those duties to appointed committees, there was no honor in that. He wasn't given those responsibilities so that he could take only passive interest in his people. Just as Orgrim had done, so would he: personally, or as much as was possible.

It is a daunting amount of work that leaves time for little else, and as such, his personal life was put furthest from the fire of things that needed doing, despite how much it needed to be done. The fact that his feelings were elsewhere only served to worsen the matter.

He locked his breastplate into place and began to attach the spiked pauldrons to his shoulders.

'It is funny', he thought bitterly to himself, 'that you should hide behind the excuse of duties for the women who courted you. For though there is a lot of truth to the statement, it rings quite hollow when you would drop everything should the rune you wear around your neck begin to glow. Your concern for her trumps all but your deepest of loyalties, does it not?'

He sighed, picked himself up from his bed and reached for the Doomhammer.

It was the truth. Should she call upon him for aid, there was not much that would keep him from answering the call and he chided himself on his hypocrisy.

He was about to leave his room when he heard a feathery beating of wings at his window.

It was a hawk, gold and red in its coloring, and attached to its leg was a roll of parchment bearing the green Seal of Theramore. When she did bother to send letters she often used this medium, for if intercepted it appeared as official business- formal letters and the like. He untied the scroll from the bird's leg and broke the seal with the black nail of his thumb.

It was the invitation to the Theramore Founding Festival. Why she didn't just give it to him in person was beyond him; it's not as if they weren't completely shitfaced together just hours ago.

Delivering it by hand defeated the formal gesture, he supposed, and though their yearly routine was well practiced, it would be kind of awkward to refuse to her face. Make no mistake; he _wanted_ to go- the political fiasco alone would be a great story to laugh over for years to come- but he couldn't do that to her people. They still, and will always, remember the death of Daelin Proudmoore, and as such he knew he was unwelcome. Still, though, he wanted to have her back when she needed help- and not the military or formal kind. She was unhappy that she was being courted by bothersome nobles that did not interest her in the slightest. They were sure to bestow upon her lavish gifts that she neither wanted nor needed.

He wondered if any of them could work up the balls to sing her their ridiculous praises if he was standing next to her. He probably wouldn't need to talk, or frown even. They way she talked of them, they had to be men of little substance, having lived lives of comfort and ease, all the while she had studied the painstaking art of the arcane, and, on occasion, rose up to save the world. None of them understood the magnitude of her efforts, except perhaps Varian Wrynn

And that was a problem that he desperately wished he could do something about.

He knew Jaina. She would never accept the hand of any of the Stormwind nobles that came to pester her into marriage. They had nothing to offer her. She was ruler of her own nation, and no amount of wealth alone could sway her. But Varian Wrynn was King, and with that came political ramifications he could not ignore.

The various human kingdoms, what was left of them anyway, did not recognize Theramore's sovereign. Kul'Tiras, the nation of her birth, viewed the city-state as a colony over which they held rule, due to Jaina's royal blood. This was not the case, and its independence was won with the regrettable, but inevitable, death of the Admiral Proudmoore.

Stormwind, as the main seat of the Alliance's power, treats Theramore as its subject, though it is careful not to say so outright. As a far larger nation, it has the capital to influence the laws and policies of the rest of the Alliance, but Jaina is far too stubborn to allow their dominion over her people. They are part of the Alliance, of that there is no question, but their laws are not the same laws of Stormwind; when the Alliance calls for arms her people volunteer of their own accord, _not_ because an official from across the sea went door to door rallying boys and fathers from their mothers and wives. They are not taxed under Stormwind's flag, each child is offered an education if they choose to take it and women have many of the rights afforded to men. And though it is settled in a backwater swamp, it is the Alliance's most important trade hub on Kalimdor.

Politically, it made perfect sense why Varian would want to merge the two nations, but Thrall's biggest concern lay not in the political agenda of Stormwind, but the personal one of its king.

She always spoke glowingly of the once boy-king, Anduin. She had helped shape him into what he hoped would one day be a great and peaceful ruler. Her concern for him was almost like a mother's, and out of the kindness of her heart, she helped to merge the broken soul of their lost king, not just for his benefit, but also for the sake of Stormwind's people. It was simply a matter of time until Varian would begin to see her as more than a colleague, even though his clumsy advances were wholly unwanted.

What aggravated Thrall the most was that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. Even putting his own feelings aside, he worried that Jaina would settle for someone she did not love in return simply for the stability of a tie with Stormwind would provide. Or, conversely, would he pursue her so ardently she would rebuff him in a way that would jeopardize Theramore's already fragile sovereignty? They could take the port city by force without so much as a pittance of effort. And, if that event were to happen, would he be able to come to her aid knowing that such an action would undoubtedly throw the world into war?

Such was the enigma of his relationship with Jaina Proudmoore. So many worries would need not be had if only he could quell the troublesome flame he harbored in his heart.

He fed the hawk a bit of yesterday's meat he had left sit out to break his fast and turned to leave. He would write her a reply on the morrow.


	5. Chapter 5

The break of day was only an hour away, the two moons finishing their descent across the night sky: The Pale Mother adopting a red hue as it edged ever closer to its reflection on the black of the Great Sea, the Blue Child warming to a purple as it eternally wanders after its mother.

It was the morning of the Founding festival and Jaina had risen before the pink light of sunrise to prepare herself for the day's events. She had opted for a more formal attire instead of her usual mages' robes- perhaps out of a sense of occasion or, more likely, to subtly convey her position as ruler of her city-state.

She was not pretentious enough to have her seamstress make her one of those gaudy things that the noblewomen of Stormwind decorate themselves with: lace and pearls and, ugh, _ruffles_. Hers was quite simple in construction, though that is not to say that it wasn't made with the utmost care. She had chosen a purple fabric, not unlike the colors she wore daily, but this time to convey a sense of royalty to whoever might see her, however how small that sense might be. For though Jaina Proudmoore did not rule Theramore as queen, her nation is still as sovereign as if she had, and that fact is of utmost importance.

The dress was smartly cut, strapless save for one shoulder. Its hem brushed the tops of her feet, so as not to drag on the ground and she was eternally grateful that it did not feature one of those dreadful crinoline contraptions; they made women look like cake toppers. It would not be fitting to demand her nation's respect whilst looking like a pastry. The dress fit her closely, but not snugly, down to her waist where a band of satin had been sewn to accentuate it. The skirt of the dress wasn't embellished at all; it did not flare out at her hips but rather it hung on them, the seams on either side continuing downward, the hem flowing neatly at her feet. It was simple, but striking.

Her maidservant showed in the attendant who was to do her hair. In truth, Jaina would've preferred to do it herself, but the kind old woman who attended to her would hear nothing of it and scheduled for a professional. And so Jaina sat quietly, if not begrudgingly, as the spindly, puckered woman fussed over her hair, pulling at it until it obeyed the shape she commanded of it. It reminded Jaina of a time far earlier in her life, when she was just a girl and her mother would oversee things such as this, taking great pains to groom her into a proper noblewoman. She smiled, the sad sort that one wears when revisiting an old wound, remembering countless hours of etiquette and posture, the precise depth of a curtsy depending on the rank of the other party ('Never so low, child, for yours is among the rank of Queens.') and which of the arbitrarily large assortment of silverware was proper to use first. Perhaps it was one of the reasons she enjoyed her studies so much, an escape from the world of courtly unknowns into the hard, rigid science of the arcane. Or was it the desire for something more than the stifling walls of a keep, the love of travel and distant lands? The simple child's love of rebellion? Perhaps, all three.

It did not make her truly sad, to remember. It had been quite some time ago that her mother passed away, what had caused the furrow in her brow was that she hadn't kept up on any of her teachings. For though she had an acute understanding of the subject, she only put her skills to use once or twice a year. Every other formal meeting was centered on diplomatic or military efforts, neither of which, thankfully, allowed for frivolity.

But this was not one of those times.

This was a time for speaking idly to powdered ladies attached to the arms of highly decorated and well manicured men, greeting visiting dignitaries from the other nations of the Alliance and other such pleasantries. She silently hoped there would be more than a few Night Elves in attendance that she could bother instead because for all of their aloofness and dislike for mages they weren't prone to idle bullshit in the way that humans were. Or Dwarves, for they were men and women of action. (And their taste for ale was impeccable.)

It is times like this that Jaina wished she were an orc. How lovely it would be, should an asinine noblewoman snipe an insult your way, for it to be perfectly acceptable to punch her in the face for insulting your honor. The mental image alone was enough to garner a smile.

But alas, her skin remained pink, her hair blonde. The woman behind her ceased her pinning and pulling and made a satisfied 'humph.' She handed Jaina a small mirror to assess her handiwork.

Her hair was gathered in a low chignon at the base of her neck, but unlike those worn on the wedding days of the common people, this one was sleek, carefully combed so that no hair upon her head was out of place. It was fastened at the top by a tasteful gold pin with leafwork and pearls that had been her mother's.

Though masterfully crafted, her hair was not pulled taut like that of a schoolteacher. Left instead was a long flowing lock that began at her brow and framed her face naturally before returning into the orderly bun at the nape of her neck.

She had initially wanted to leave it down, but after seeing herself in the mirror she was quite pleased with the results. She nodded and turned around to thank the woman, whose tall, thin frame seemed to almost tower over her. Her maidservant, plump and jolly as always, clasped her hands and brought them to her face, so pleased was she with her appearance.

'_Honestly,' _Jaina thought bemusedly,_ 'You'd think she was my mother.'_

Sensing that her job was finished, the hairdresser took her leave, but not before her compensation was confirmed by her servant. As the door clicked softly shut, the maidservant traversed the room and retrieved a stack of unopened letters from her desk and brought them to Jaina to review.

She flipped through them quickly, more or less knowing of their contents: Late replies confirming or denying the attendance of those addressed. Her maidservant also handed her a tube far larger than need be to contain a human scroll. It was twice-sealed; the first to secure the container with twine, the second to ensure the security of the scroll itself. The wax was a telltale shade of oxblood red, sealed with a large thumbprint in the place of a family seal.

"Is it true that you invite him every year?" her maidservant inquired quietly, the vague 'him' understood between him.

"Yes, Esther" She said with mild exasperation, "And every year he politely declines." Jaina paused, absentmindedly opening the scroll, observing the large, but well penned script with only passing interest "You needn't be here," her eyes flashed up from the letter, "I can fetch my own letters."

Esther looked almost annoyed at being dismissed so early in the day, but she eventually caved.

"I hear there's going to be a magician for the children in the afternoon. You should take your grandson; I know how much you miss spending time with him." She said with a smile.

"Oh, Jaina," said Esther, forgetting titles for a moment, "Light Bless You."

"Go-on, go-on," Said Jaina smiling, waving the woman out of the room.

But before she closed the door, she poked her head back in and said, warily, "I heard from Bernice in housekeeping, who heard from Clara in the kitchens, who heard from the help that arrived from Stormwind -you know, that mousy looking one, Sarah- that King Varian has something big planned," She paused and gave her lady a sorrowful smile. "Just don't shoot him down too hard, okay? I thought I should warn you ahead of time, milady. Even if it is just kitchen gossip."

Jaina sighed, and then said dryly, her mouth curved into an exaggerated grimace "Do you think it is too late to arrange an assassination?"

Pained, who must have been sitting in the window for some time now added sarcastically, "Heh. His or yours?"

"At this point, either would be fine."

Esther snorted, her face attempting to maintain a chastising look though her eyes betraying her laughter, "You shouldn't say such things, milady. It's no joking matter." She gave Jaina a pointed look, and when the mage returned it, amused, Esther shook her head smiling, taking her leave, patting the door for good measure.

After her footsteps faded out of earshot, "Is she always this overbearing?," inquired Pained, her manner dry as usual.

"She's just concerned for my well being. Any news from abroad?"

"All's quiet as far as I can tell. Brackenwall has done nothing interesting in weeks, few to no suspicious types have come ashore by sea, just a half-orc and his buddy that got in a barfight with a few sailors down by Demonsbane Inn."

"Any report on the weather?"

"I'm a rogue, not a shaman. Why don't you ask your _friend_?" She said, tapping her finger on the now-forgotten scroll, just north of Thrall's signature.

"Fantastic. I'll just breach all national securities, port directly in front of his chair in Grommash Hold without any forewarning and ask, 'Hey, could you drop everything and check on the weather for me? It's not like you have anything better to do.'"

"Very funny," said Pained, "But everything seems to be going smoothly, so I'll be on alert. If nothing is falling apart, then something will surely go sour, and fast. I can just feel it."

Jaina sighed, "I wouldn't have it any other way."

"You know it." Was all the Night Elf replied before disappearing through the tower window, red morning light turning to white as the sun ascended into the sky.

Jaina, finished with her letters, conjured a tray of small cakes and a cup of honeymint tea to break her fast, though she was tempted to add a bit of liquid courage to tame her nerves. It was easy to remain calm in front of others; it was something she had been trained to do from birth. Remaining calm for herself was another matter entirely.


	6. Chapter 6

The seagulls flew above the port town, squawking about the masts and shores alike, blissfully ignorant of the festivities that transpired below. Tents had been erected in the streets, their shapes and colors varying wildly; white and gold pennant banners snapped and flew in the breeze above storefronts that had their best wares out on display, from blacksmith to baker, seamstress to stonemason. The ale flowed freely from the tap and music from various troupes and bards could be heard flowing from the streets. The sun shone brightly through the ever-present clouds, persistent in its efforts so that it too might not miss the day's events.

All of these things were happening around Jaina Proudmoore, and try as she might, she had far too much to worry about to enjoy herself.

It was just before noon and she was talking to this positively inane woman, attached to an even more boring husband. Lady Marguerite Desmond, wife of Lord Albert Desmond, apparently took to reading _condensed_ novels and has an affluent taste for tea grown in the Wetlands. Her face was almost comically painted, white powder to mask her aging face, rouge meant to highlight her cheekbones stark and unnatural. Jaina had to wonder if she had a history of narcolepsy, for her chest was drawn so tight in her corset that she need only look down to rest her chin upon heaving breasts.

When the woman _finally_ excused herself to converse with a cluster of hoop-skirted noblewomen nearby, she had to shuffle to the side to avoid knocking Jaina over, so wide as the pannier that supported her box-like skirt. That particular style of dress had begun to fall out of fashion due to its mobility issues. Jaina assumed that her lack of even a bustle underneath her own skirts would be cause for small controversy as it was more of an Elven style of dress. Soon enough, she was sure, the rumors would circulate of how it had been an old gift from Kael'thas or Arthas, hidden away out of sentiment, or perhaps, she thought with a grit to her teeth, Thrall. It's not as if _that_ particular rumor was a fresh one though; they'd been whispering that one around fires since the battle of Mount Hyjal. And if they ever found out about their whiskey nights, she might as well burn the rumor mill down personally.

It was then that her attention was caught, by a polite cough from behind her. She turned gracefully to be met by a well dressed and well groomed man by the name of Davish Comstock. By the starch of his blue overcoat and the blinding polish of the gold buttons on his breast she could tell that he came from a strict, but wealthy household. His golden hair was parted on the side and combed over in a stylish wave- the kind that makes the young girls swoon- and his strong jaw was clean shaven.

"Good Afternoon, my Lady," he said, his mouth curving into a smile that revealed teeth: straight and white. 'Ah', she thought, 'magically corrected. Quite wealthy, then'

"And a good afternoon it is, Lord Comstock. It is not often that we get to enjoy so much uninterrupted sunshine." When she looked up, she noted that, indeed, the sun had won its struggle for dominance of the heavens.

Davish smiled almost shyly, a nervousness peeking through his well trained exterior, though for _exactly_ what, Jaina was unsure. He shifted a little awkwardly, moving a wrapped object from under his right arm to under his left so that he could extend his hand to her.

"Lady Proudmoore," he said, inclining his head down in a subtle bow, "Would you do me the honor of accompanying me on a walk?

Jaina smiled in a courtly way as to not betray her thoughts, and accepted with the faintest of curtsies. Though a little annoyed when he extended his elbow, she took it as well, grateful at the very least to be away from the growing array of noblewomen who whispered about one another behind the privacy of their lace fans.

They walked in silence for a distance, Davish apparently struggling to find a suitable topic of conversation. Jaina pitied him a bit; the poor boy kept an admirable composure but lacked the social confidence of most nobles. Or perhaps, she thought, he was just intimidated by the eyes that followed them from the throngs of festival goers. In any case, she would do him a favor and break the ice herself.

"It is surprising that the weather should be so clear this afternoon. The moons were red this morning."

When he looked at her with a cocked eyebrow she continued.

"It's an old sailor's tale: Red at night, sailor's delight; Red at morning, sailor's warning. My father had told me about it when I was a child."

"And what did you think of this, my Lady? I cannot imagine that you're the superstitious type."

Jaina chuckled softly. "I thought he was absolutely mad. He ruffled my hair and told me that one day I'd understand."

"And do you?" He asked, curiously.

"I'm not about to say that I put a vast amount of stock in sailors stories and old wives tales, but I must confess that the morning of our flight out of Lordaeron was marked with red moons, and it was if the sea itself wished to throw all of us off of its back."

"The captains of your ships must have been quite skilled to navigate through such weather safely. You make it sound so treacherous."

"And treacherous it was. Were it not for my instruction we would've landed ourselves in what is now Durotar, rather than the land we tread now. A poor Proudmoore I'd be if I couldn't manage a compass or an astrolabe!"

They shared a chuckle before he asked, "But how did you know to sail here? There were hardly any maps of this continent before your landfall. It is fascinating you managed to find a suitable place for a city at all."

"To be honest it was more an intuitive move than anything. Medivh's beacon was rather vague; he had told me to sail both south and west to this 'forgotten continent'. Why, Lord Comstock, must prophets and shamans always speak in such mystic terms?"

Though the conversation had been going smoothly, Jaina smirked inwardly when the word 'shaman' gave him a bit of a pause. Can't make it too easy on him now, can we?

"I wasn't aware that Medivh studied shamanism as well" Davish managed with a measure of dignity.

"He did not." She said simply.

"Then you speak of the Horde's Warchief." He stopped their walking and turned to hold her hands in his, a look of genuine concern arresting his features.

"I do not mean to undermine your skill with the arcane, but it cannot be safe for a Lady such as yourself to meet an orc unguarded, let alone their strongest warrior."

And there it is, she thought, the assumption that she could not take care of herself. It never ceased to amaze her how that idea could follow her around even when many had seen her do battle at Hyjal or in Northrend, challenging the monstrosity that was once Arthas in his own halls. Rater than chastise the poor boy in front of everyone, she decided to make a joke about it.

"Your concern is unneeded, Davish." She said," Though it is true that he's quite intimidating in person, I assure you he is harmless. Besides, though it would never happen, I've often wondered who would win in a fight, he or I"

The look of shock at her flippancy was almost more than she could bear.

"That's not something you should joke about, my lady! That hammer killed Anduin Lothar!" He spluttered.

"But not by _his_ hand. Arcane power may seem a bit abstract to you, but know that it allows someone with extensive training command over the forces of reality itself. I could turn him into a sheep before he could utter his battle cry."

Davish recovered from her casualness admirably, trying to keep the conversation amicable.

"So you think you would win?" It was stated as both a question and a statement, as if he was letting the gravity of that fact sink in. That she was, for all intents and purposes, an equal of the famed Warchief Thrall.

"Were he just a warrior, I think so, but those elements of his would cause a lot of trouble," She paused in thought, and then waved a hand," It would likely be some sort of tie. He'd be the technical winner, having laid a devastating blow, but his Kor'kron would have to figure out how to chip him out of a ten foot block of ice."

At his incredulous look, she added, "That is, when they've when they've walked back to Durotar from my viewing pool in the gardens.

As she laughed (and he looked at her in barefaced horror), they were interrupted by a stern cough to their side.

When they both turned to look, it was a gentleman in his late forties that wore the colors of the Stormwind navy. He stood tall, his dress uniform fitting well and the bars on his shoulders betraying his status as Vice Admiral. He had aged well, the lines around his eyes and mouth only faint traces of what they could be, his dark hair flecked with strands of gray. His green eyes spoke of a sharp wit and sharper intellect, but the worn sword at his hip told of a man who'd spent years fighting wars, perhaps even as early as the Second.

'Father would've liked him', she thought, and then laughed inwardly, 'Perhaps he _did_; he's certainly old enough to have known him.'

"Good day, my lady" he says with a small dip of his head, "It seems as though I'm interrupting you; I'm afraid I'm quite rusty with all of this courtly business."

Davish shakes his head politely, despite how much he probably didn't want to. "Oh, not at all good sir, I was about to take my leave."

He turned to take the package from underneath his left arm, "But not before I've given you this."

Jaina had spent many years in candlelit halls among dusty tomes, so when the carefully wrapped package came to rest in her hands she knew that sealed inside was a book. She pulled at the twine that held the paper in place, removing it carefully despite her growing excitement.

She was surprised at how old the tome was, the rich brown of the leather beginning to crack at the edges. The title, in faded gilded lettering read, 'The Missing Meitre: A Critical Hypothesis'.

'Ah,' Jaina thought, '_this_ is a conversation worth having.'

"Oh! How fascinating! I didn't know you were interested in this kind of history. Tell me: What is your opinion of the author's findings? Do you think that Meitre had looked into necromancy as his findings suggest?"

Her questions seemed to surprise him, his eyebrows shooting upward and his lips curving into a smile as she recognized his gift.

"I'm glad you like it, my lady," he said, his smile widening to flash his perfect teeth at her, "I had my best men search for a gift to suit your intellect. I am afraid that most of it is lost on me, however. They tell me that it is quite a rare find, an artifact from long before the second war."

'Alas,' she thought sadly, 'too hopeful, too soon.'

"It _is_ rare," she said, trying not to crush the poor man with what she was about to say, "This copy is an even earlier edition than the one in my own libraries. It still contains the texts that the Kirin Tor edited in later editions, but lacks the concluding thoughts of the author shortly before his death."

Davish's face fell when she said that it was a work she already owned and struggled to regain his composure. The man who had been waiting patiently beside them smirked beneath his moustache.

"This is a fine gift, Davish Comstock," she said dipping into a brief curtsey," You have my sincerest thanks. It will find a home next to its kin in my personal libraries."

His bow was awkward and stiff as he took his leave, obviously embarrassed to have been shot down in front of a man many years his senior.

"Goodbye to you, Lady Proudmoore. May we meet again another day."

"To you as well, Davish."

Jaina and the newcomer shared a silence until Davish was out of earshot, the speed of whom made for a short one. The man spoke first.

"Poor bastard. Too young to have known that his looks cannot get him everywhere and too wealthy to have worked a day in his life."

He turned to Jaina, extending his hand for a handshake and hesitating midway, realizing that it probably wasn't proper etiquette for a Lady of her status.

Jaina laughed, and then shook his hand anyway, remembering to stay firm as her father had.

"Honestly, I dislike this courtly business myself. Best keep that to ourselves, though."

He laughed, a short bark of someone in on a joke, and replied, "Indeed, wouldn't want them thinking we're human. Pleased to meet you, Lady Proudmoore; I am Delmore Sewall, Vice Admiral"

"Pleased to make your acquaintance, Admiral. It's good to see I can still identify naval ranks after so many years ashore."

"I find it is something that never leaves you, the sea. It's in your blood as much as mine, my Lady."

"Indeed. How long have you been a sailor, Admiral? You aren't an old salt yet, but you aren't a young one either."

He smiled, and Jaina could tell that he had been quite handsome when he was young.

"My first days aboard a ship weren't as a seaman but as a refugee. I sailed with my family north to escape Stormwind in the wake of the First War. I couldn't have been much older than fourteen. The first time I was a _sailor_, though was around my nineteenth birthday. Lothar called upon the remaining fleets to supplement the Kul'Tiras Navy, and I was assigned to a gun on the starboard side of a ship called the _Demetria_. I've been a part of the Navy ever since."

'And it's been the better for it, as it would seem.' Jaina stated, gesturing to the insignia on his chest, "It's good to know that Varian has experienced men commanding his fleets rather than a handful of landed gentry with ulterior motives."

"I agree wholeheartedly, my lady," Delmore replied, "I do not think I could take orders from men with soft palms and softer handshakes, no matter how much they'd pay me to. Were I a commercial man I'd have been a pirate!"

He laughed and Jaina riposted," Not about to turn Bloodsail on us, are you?'

He laughed again, a short percussive sound, and then turned to really look Jaina in the eye.

"…I didn't really know what to expect when I approached you, my lady. You are a mage, a ruler, a diplomat, a noble. These things are known to many. What surprises me is how personable you are. Talking to you is like talking to someone I've known for years, unlike every mage or noble I've ever met. They've got more power than their mettle is worth, but you are as level as your father had ever been."

She remained silent as he continued.

This was the worst part, Jaina thought: when they talk about her father. They all know how he died; it was no secret that she had allowed the orcs into her city as he occupied it, how she had told them of the goblin shipyards- now Ratchet- to the north. They always tried to both dance around the subject and remind her of her loss. Always, _always_ skeptical of the non-aggression pacts that she and Thrall sign every year or so. She supposed it always comes up because she actually holds a conversation with them, rather than remaining aloof like all of the other noblewomen. It doesn't help that it's one of the few things about her that that they can easily digest, either. The old sailor certainly wasn't about to debate magical theory with her anytime soon.

She didn't have high hopes, but perhaps this one would surprise her.

"I must admit that I've always been uneasy about your truces with the Horde, but speaking to you now bolsters my confidence. You posses a great wit and intellect; you are honest and steadfast in doing what is right for your people."

All of this praise had Jaina uneasy herself. Though she was surprised that he approved of the measures she had taken in the past, she also wonders why he is taking the time to say it aloud.

'Probably sugaring me up for something,' she sighed inwardly, '_Great_.'

She shifted a bit under his steady gaze and said only, "Thank you, Admiral. Not many hold that opinion." Best to keep it neutral, she thought.

"Ah, no need to thank me, my Lady. It is the truth. But, as you are aware, politics are a constant shifting of power and the Horde is no different. Should this peace you've won deteriorate I want you to know that you will have my fleet at your disposal. Just as I have lent my hand before, I will do so again."

He punctuated his sentence with a courtly bow, akin to a swearing of loyalty.

Jaina, in an attempt to cease his courtliness, "Oh, you needn't bow, Admiral. For a man who despises aristocracy, you're doing quite well at putting on its airs."

He hitched in his movements, not expecting to be called out on it. His face remained impassive, quickly recovering in a manner that was both apologetic and insistent.

"You'll have to excuse me, my Lady. I am afraid I lack the ability to tell when I'm trying too hard," he joked, "But it certainly doesn't help that you're looking quite lovely this afternoon."

This time he really did stammer.

"Ah…I suppose that was rather bold. My apologies."

Jaina was about to forgive the man when she heard a stiff cough from someone to the side of them.

Varian.

Delmore practically jumped to salute, his heels clicking together with such a practiced quickness that he appeared to 'snap' to attention.

"At ease, Admiral. I see you've met our gracious host," said Varian, amicably but sternly.

The sailor's reply was rigid and matter of fact, "Indeed I have, my King. She was just showing me around her grand city."

"It is quite lovely, yes. You must excuse me Admiral; I believe I must steal the Lady Proudmoore from you as we have a few matters to discuss."

'Oh great, _Matters'_ Jaina thought, 'Perhaps Esther wasn't wrong after all.'

'Of course, your majesty.' The Admiral bowed, first to Varian and then to Jaina, "And a good day to you, my lady."

He turned on his heel and left, filtering into the crowd until all that could be seen of him was the tip of his hat.

Varian laughed, "You look like you're having fun."

Jaina snorted, a wholly unladylike gesture, and gave him a look that spoke volumes.

He laughed again, "If it is any consolation, his daughter been after my son for some months now. Looks like they both have a penchant for wooing the younger crowd."

"He failed to mention he was a father. How old is she?" Her words were stated dryly, but not humorlessly. The day must have been quite taxing for her to find herself being so familiar with Varian; though for as long as she has been friends with him, she preferred to keep somewhat of a professional distance. Arthas had introduced them shortly after his induction into the Knights of the Silver Hand, when the cheers of congratulations had slowed to a low din. Varian looked younger then; He looked _whole_. Married only a year to the radiant Queen Tiffin, who held a tiny, squirming Anduin to her chest, he had everything he could have ever wanted. His closest of friends had just received one of the highest honors that can be bestowed upon a knight and priest and when he had shook her hand (even then he had detested bowing) he gave Arthas a knowing look, almost as if to say, 'One day you will know the happiness that I have, friend.'

And now that happiness is gone, dashed in with an ill-thrown stone; torn into polar opposites and hastily sewn back together. There are moments like these where the Varian-that-Was shines through and one could almost forget all of the horror that he has witnessed. Conversation is easy at these times; He laughs, he jokes, he smiles and looks at the good in people and in himself. But those glimpses are intermittent, unpredictable. She knows that his relationship with Anduin suffers for it, straining the already tenuous bond between estranged father and rebellious son.

If only there were a more immediate solution to his sickness than the healing ebb and flow of time itself.

"About seventeen, by my estimation," He said, his reply pulling Jaina into the present. "She's not bad to look at, but my Anduin turns twelve in the spring. I doubt he can even register her advances as what they are and I'm not about to tell him. I don't want her getting in the way of his studies."

"He's told me that he's become very interested in the older texts regarding the light."

"It is true. And though I am not one to say that it is an ill course of study, I must admit that I wish he would pick up a sword every now and then."

At Jaina's depreciating look (they've had this discussion more than once), he said," I worry for his safety. Surely you can understand that."

"Of course, but a scholar can also make a great king."

Varian made a face as though he were refraining from saying something he'd regret and said:

"Look. Jaina. I came here to celebrate your nation's perseverance, not to get into an argument. Let us forget this for a while and have a few drinks with your people."

And though Jaina didn't necessarily want to become inebriated around him, she would be a poor host if she refused him in her own home. However, he had impressed her just then with his show of restraint and willingness to interact with the common people of her city. Perhaps this day could pass without problems after all.


End file.
